


Always Is

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, Humanstuck, Light BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”Seedy back alley ventures are no place for a lady.” “Good thing you’re no lady then.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Is

You hug the walls, blending into the shadows. How on earth you manage to get in every time is way fucking beyond you. Security in this place is shit, though you’re not surprised given the fuck heads they’ve got to work with. Of course the Felt can’t hold the door at a club, what made anyone think they could?

Every time you tell yourself that you’re here to teach her a lesson. You prick your finger on the tip of the knife in your coat, pressing against the skin until you can just barely feel it about to break. But it’s not your skin that’ll weep tonight: You’re here to watch her bleed.

But when you’re honest with yourself (which is never) you’ll admit that you don’t mind being here for the music. She’s got good taste, and though you’ve never liked to tango, you do like the violin.

But you’ll never admit that.

Because all you can think is that she’s good. She’s really good. You can almost hear her sighs as they sweep past her thin lips, the perfect curl of black hair brushing her cheek. She’s beautiful, and all you can think is what a huge bitch.

You see her whisk behind the stage, the hem of her glittering dress winking in the smoky light. You follow her to the alley behind the club.

By the time you manage to edge around to where she is, you can already see the smoke curling up from her cigarette. The holder is nestled tauntingly in her long fingers, and you can already feel your blood start to roil in rage.

“You just gonna stand there, Slick?” She turns to look at your hiding place, the brim of her hat pulled down low over her long face. She knows how things go, but tonight they’ll be different.

You step out to her, your coat cinched loose enough to let you reach your knives in case she pulls anything tricky.

“Seedy back alley ventures are no place for a lady.” She says as you move to her, prepared to make her pay.

“Good thing you’re no lady then.”

She cracks you one good right in the skull with the pistol you didn’t even see her holding and you hit the deck like a sack of flour. Ain’t no lady that can hit like that. No: It takes a real woman.

When you come to, you can barely feel the five fingers she left to you she’s got you tied down so tight with silk and shame. You didn’t know she owned scarves and you can’t believe you let her sneak attack you like that. Or that she can tie a knot so tight.

“Didn’t your Mama teach you to never bring a knife to a gun fight?” She purrs from across the room. You look around with your good eye, taking in the small room with what sight you’ve got left swimming in pain and stars. She’s dragged you into her flat; the basement of the club. Or she carried you.

The idea makes you stick your tongue through your teeth. Bluh.

“Never bring a knife to a gun fight you can’t win.” You correct, looking up at the headboard to gauge your situation.

Situation: You’re stuck.

When you look back, she’s standing at the end of the bed, a long crop dangling from her hand. You let your eyes roam over her lingerie; black with that same stupid shade of green that she trims everything in. You hate that stupid shade of green.

She taps your bare foot with the keeper of the crop and the leather is cool but unforgiving, and to avoid letting your eyes dart nervously down, you decide to gauge the caramel tint of her skin in the low light. She isn’t has dark as you, though her hair is as perfect black as night. Like three in the morning.

You shut your brain up from that mushy stuff and hiss softly as she runs the edge of the switch over the sole of your foot; your toes twitch, betraying your ticklishness. She smirks so wide she’s almost grinning, except there is a complete lack of humor or mirth in her features: only complete, sadistic malice.

She hates you.

She just hates you.

And you goad her on: “Now what’re you gonna do with that, eh?”

“I’m going to beat you until you beg.” She purrs, her thigh sliding against yours as she runs the switch over your cheek, crawling over, around, and on top of you as the bed softly groans under your combined weight.

“Oh is that all?”

You can’t help but by cheeky; you don’t have anything to use against her except your words and your teeth if she gets close enough. She’s taken your knives and hidden them somewhere, and though she’s been gracious enough to leave you your pants, they feel light enough that you know she got every single one.

How does she do that?

Before you can muse on that any longer, she knocks you out of your musings. Really knocks you. The back of her hand stings, but doesn’t bruise and you lick your lips to avoid barking with surprise.

“What was that, Spades?”

“I said i—-“

When you open your mouth she jams the rod of the crop between your teeth, pressing down hard enough to hurt the edges of your mouth and make your sentence end in a gagging sound.

“That’s what I thought.” She murmurs, digging her knee into the tender flesh where your leg meets your torso. The joint groans in protest as she forces your legs wide apart, kneeling between them like a cat on its haunches as she bears down all of her weight against your back teeth.

You tilt back your head to try and relieve the pressure. Your heart starts to pick up the pace when you fell like maybe she could crack a tooth, or split your face clean open she’s pressing down so hard. The moment you leave yourself exposed she’s there, kissing, biting, and pulling bruises to the surface with expert gnashing of her teeth at your pulse.

She pulls down sharply, forcing your jaw open wider than you’re used to having it and pulling your chin down towards your chest. Her dusty grey eyes glare down into yours as the rod rolls from your mouth. Her lips quickly crush against yours, and you take the opportunity to fight back.

You can taste the blood under her skin as you sink your teeth into her bottom lip, very nearly drawing the blood out before she punches you so hard in the chest you finally have to sigh.

Her triumph is apparent as she leans back again. You were the first to make a sound that wasn’t spoken word.

“You lose, Spades.” She murmurs, running her long nails down your chest. It’s an unspoken game between you, that certain sounds count and others don’t. The kinds of sounds you would never make for another’s ears. “Again.” She swipes her claws quickly over your stomach, leaving thin lines of red.

Even though what she says is true, you’re still pissed that she draws the first blood.

You came here to watch her bleed. And yet everything is the same.

The first swat of the crop is comparatively light, given what you’re used to. The skin over your ribs turns pink, but it’s only the keeper that catches you. She’s teasing.

“Nothing to say now, Spades?”

She catches you in the face, just under your ruined eye. She’s never been shy hitting you there, though she doesn’t usually chance it with a crop. Her aim is improving.

The sting is like the perfect prick of electricity, jolting straight to your heart and once she starts working you over, really working you over like she means it, you can feel the hot bite of the rod right in your ribcage. No matter where she hits you, it shocks straight through to your heart until your blood is running so hot your toes tingle and your pants get tight.

You grip the scarves that tie your wrists, your prosthetic fingers loser against the fabric than the ones you can still feel. They ground you, keep you real as your mind threatens to float away into angry, throbbing, groaning bliss. Grounded that way, you can hear her over the heavy smack of the crop; she sighs with quick breaths. You can see her through a half-lidded eye, hazy and flushed.

You know she’ll break before your body does. She always does. She’s as cruel as she is impatient, as vicious as she is greedy. Just when a light sheen of sweat breaks over your skin and the deep set pain of new bruising begins on your abdomen, you hear the crop clatter to the floor. You hear her take a shuddering breath and her elegant hand clamps over your jaw, craning your neck sideways and up to look at her.

She licks her lips, the pads of her fingers digging into the flesh of your cheek as she kneels on the bed, leaning down to run her tongue over the hideous scar she left you. She kisses your eyelid, and you are legitimately shocked she doesn’t use her teeth to quit you your other eye.

Instead she unties you, swinging a mile-long leg over your hip to straddle you. As her thin fingers dig at her own impressive knots, you bide your time, reveling in the feel of her rolling her hips against you and the triumph of her impatience.

She isn’t quick enough once the scarves are gone.

You heave her a hook to the jaw, knocking her off balance. She waivers, but doesn’t turn, instead retaliating by grabbing your throat.

You sit up and kiss her. You kiss her hard, like you mean it. You tell her everything with that kiss. How much you want to watch her burn, how perfect she is, how badly you’re going to hurt her and just how much you hate her.

You show her how everything is just the same when you pull her hair, forcing her to you in an embrace that knocks the breath out of her. You catch it in your mouth, panting as she struggles against you. She’s no weakling, and it takes more than one hand to force her hands behind her back.

Before she can gain her bearings, you take advantage. You nip her neck, her chest, leaving angry marks and fluttering kisses to highlight the perfect pain. Her fingers twitch and flex against your hands and you pull her arms back painfully, forcing her back to arch lest her shoulders leave their sockets.

But she isn’t without her own movement. Her legs wrap around your back, crushing the two of you together in anticipation, like she might melt into you if you gave her the chance. As if you would.

She wobbles backwards and you release her hands to catch her, raking your short, grimey nails over the small of her back. The curve fits your arm perfectly. Her hands move to your hair, pulling and clawing, and it seems it’s finally the time of the night where you shut the hell up and she starts speaking in tongues.

“Spades.” She growls pulling your hair back so hard it hurts the top of your spine as you buck up against her, the fabric between you a maddening barrier. She only needs to say that one word, your name, black and perfect to let you know a sort of truce as been reached.

Somehow, everything comes off. You’re never quite sure how, but many of your clothes have come back from nights like these torn at hems and seams. She scratches and tears at you, her nails raking down the sides of your legs as she forces your trousers to the edge of the bed, slithering out of her panties as she does so. She back hands you again when the strap her to her bra rips in your hands.

“That was expensive.” She snarls through her teeth as you throw her by the shoulders to the bed. Her head cracks against the head board, and while you’re sure she’s seeing stars, you still force her knees up to her ears.

She’ll be fine.

She can take a crack like that and then some.

Her cries are locked in the back of her throat when you bear down on her; she traps them behind her lips, biting them to keep from making a sound. You turn you head enough to sink your teeth into the skin on her knee to keep from moaning yourself. She’s never tighter than you remember, but always a pleasant surprise. Your head hangs low as you fight to control your breath as she locks one hand behind your neck, egging you on with a gasp.

When you get things under control, reminding yourself that you’ve got a cool to keep, your head tilts back and she’s there again, attacking marks she’d made earlier and demanding you this way and that, coaching you in a way that makes you slam against her.

There are moments the two of you share that make you wonder what’s really between you, like when the skin of her hand, managing to be cool despite the thick heat in the air surrounding the bed, caresses your cheek. She cups your face and her coal gaze pierces through yours, like she might want to say something but all that comes out is a scream and the nail of her thumbs digs into your scar.

There’s blood on the sheets and under your nails, but no one is seriously injured. You can’t decide if she’ll be walking tomorrow or not, but the smug look on her face says she’ll be just fine.

Much to your dismay.

“I hate you.” She grunts as the sun peeps under the heavy shades and into her room, just as you’re slinking out the door, jamming your hat on your head as you stalk away, squinting against the gaudy light.

It’s the same as it always is.

She sleeps in.

You walk away.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted to my Tumblr, which now no longer exists.


End file.
